The Time the Plane Wouldn't Fly: The Story of Rush's Past
by RushandStreak
Summary: Rush is a strong soldier for the Jolly Wrenches, a plane trained by Skipper Riley, and a plane with a dark future. When he is shot down during a patrol on Glendalcanal he blames himself for his squadron's death. He can never face Skipper again... or even let him know he's alive. The story of a forgotten plane. Rated T for violence and death.
1. Chapter 1: A Plane Disgraced

Everything was calm on the Dwight D. Flysenhower today. Lucas and Jigsaw were doing laps around the ship and Storm and Strategy were playing a game of chess. A small group of three planes were crowding around them, watching. Even Skipper Riley was off guard for once and enjoying the quiet. He was lazily chatting with the Flysenhower and Sparky. I seemed to be the only plane in the squadron that hadn't let down his guard on the ship. Skipper glanced back at me with concerned eyes, "Rush, I know you're being a good soldier but why worry. We're far from enemy lines and how likely is it that we'll find any trouble today." _Very likely_, I thought. Skipper continued, "Enjoy the peace when it comes."

"I'll try, Skip," I said.

Skipper nodded and turned to leave, "Oh, Rush, I'd like you to come on a patrol with me. That's one thing you can worry about."

"Rodger that, Skip," I said, raising my right wing in a quick salute.

Skipper gave me a withering glance, "There's no need for that now."

Skipper and the Flysenhower had chosen seven planes, other than me to go along on the patrol of Glendalcanal. I glanced at the airplanes he had chosen to go along with us. Blair and Burn flew side by side. The two almost looked identical except for Burn's old squadron's insignia painted next to ours. Lucas was a prime example of a Corsair, sleek straight wings, gleaming paint, and sharp new propellers. Jigsaw's tail was slightly crooked, Storm's color was duller than most, and, strangely, David had one green eye and one brown. As I glanced around at my comrades I couldn't shake the feeling of danger as I scanned the cloud covered sea for any hint of an ambush. "Skipper," Lucas asked briskly, "How far do we have to go?"

"Further," Skipper said. He, too, was tense and ready for action. He flew almost stiffly as if he were reluctant to move on. His stress was grating on me.

Jigsaw flew up to me, "The clouds are starting to drive me crazy. How are we s'posed to patrol if we can't see the sea?" Skipper gave us a warning glance.

"If the clouds are going to allow us to see the ocean then they will," I whispered, trying to push the annoyingly talkative plane away.

Jigsaw flew away near Blair and Burn who were flying lower than everyone else. Blair suddenly piped up, "Hey, look at that!" We all turned our attention to an opening in the clouds where a single enemy ship floated.

"Easy pickin's, whaddaya say?" Jigsaw asked with eyes bright.

"Negative, Jigsaw 2," Skipper snapped, "Our orders are to recon and report back."

I felt compelled to join the plea, I wanted action, "C'mon Skip, it'll be a turkey shoot."

When more planes joined, Skipper shook his nose, "Fine, let's go in for a closer look." We all turned our noses down but when we broke cloud cover we were faced with an entire fleet.

"It's the whole enemy!" I shouted as I dodged bullet after bullet but it was too late to pull up. I watched as plane after plane, friend after friend, was shot down mercilessly into the sea. Antiaircraft fire dug deep into my underbelly. Pain shot through me, "Skipper! Help me!" I screamed as my vision blurred. Another bullet hit my wing causing me to lose control. My nose dipped and another wave of sharp, burning pain flashed through me. I felt my landing gear almost automatically extend and then crack. My left wing went numb almost as soon as I hit the sea and the blue world began to dim and fade.

My body was numb and bird calls surrounded me. It felt as if I had had a terrible dream that I couldn't quite remember. I forced my eyes open and was momentarily confused; there was no pavement beneath me and my prop was bent into my nose. There was only sand, water, and sky as far as I could see. Suddenly memories came flooding back along with pain. I nearly fainted once more as I glanced at my wings. Half of my left wing was… gone, torn off. Where its stub lay oil had stained the sand. The bits of metal around it were turning grey, a tell tale sign of infection. My tail was coated in salt where the sea water had lapped at it.

I struggled to my landing gear and rolled up the beach a bit more so that the tide didn't splash around my tail. Pain flared through me and I collapsed. I watched as seagulls circled around me like hawks and vultures would around a dead tractor. My eyelids were heavy as the sun beat down relentlessly from above. If I were to survive, I needed help. "This is Rush 36 to USS Dwight D. Flysenhower, come in… please," I radioed, my voice weak with the effort.

To my surprise, a thin, small voice responded, "I hear you but this is the Fighting Redcocks on the USS Midway not the Jolly Wrenches."

I sighed, "I'm in need of assistance… I've crashed on a patrol and am now on an island."

"Are you hurt in any way?"

"Yes," I coughed up seawater before continuing, "I've lost a wing."

The other end of the radio was silent for a minute. The voice came back a bit stronger, "We'll be there as soon as we can. The Jolly Wrenches have searched for survivors from that patrol. Only Riley 7 has been found and returned home in bad but repairable shape. Don't move until we find you, Midway out."

I felt hot tears run down my nose as I mourned for my squadron. I felt ashamed when I thought about Skipper. He was in pain and the rest of my squadron was dead because I had wanted to attack. I had been so wrapped up in victory that I hadn't thought first about what I was doing. I thought myself the worst Jolly Wrench there ever was. I wanted to die here like the rest of my squadron, drown in the sea so near my battered body. Even if my wing was replaceable I would never fly again. I would suffer for my entire squadron and I could never face Skipper again. As far as I was concerned Skipper would probably hate me for what I had done. I cried and cursed myself until I blacked out.


	2. Chapter 2: The Mirror of Truth

I awoke in so much pain. My blurred vision at least let me see the sand around me. The smallest bit of hope rose in him as I spotted an F4U Corsair's frame against the moonlight. There was hardly an ounce of breath left in me but still I tried to yelp. The plane's frame twitched slightly and a groan escaped him.

I tried to speak but all that I managed was a squeak and a small exhale of breath. The plane moved once more, opening its eyes to reveal deep brown eyes, "Rush?" I immediately recognized the voice as that of Blair, an incredibly mysterious plane. He never _had_ told anyone about his past. I managed what looked to be a nod. "Oh, Rush," he sighed, "it's good to see you're alive. I thought…" his voice faltered into a fit of wretched coughing.

I forced myself to speak, even though my jaw was pressed up against the sand, "They're coming to rescue us in the morning. You can hold on 'til then, can'tcha?"

Blair looked at me; already the light in his eyes was dying. He looked as if a shadow was haunting him. He choked on his words, "Rush, I can't." His words were met with silence. "Look at me. I'm riddled with bullet holes. Let me tell you they hit every important piece of me possible." He was taking dying awfully well. I, however, was not. Blair took a ragged breath and tried to speak but all that came out was seawater. After several more gasps, he looked at me fearfully for once. In his eyes there was so much pain that I felt it. For a few precious moments our eyes locked, everything in his thoughts flooded into mine. Amazingly, they were not of pain but of fear. He didn't want to die there, on that island. He wanted to cling to the small ounce of life he still had, but already that life was slipping from his grasp. I watched the soldier fall into the pit of death and there was nothing I could do. Those eyes of Blair did not close as he died but rather froze there, trained on me, his last moments staring at me in the face. I tried to turn away but those eyes… they were still there, staring in my peripheral vision, haunting me.

The night wore on but sleep was not to come by. Blair's body still stayed there, only being picked up and thrown higher onto the shore or lower into the water. I kept my eyes trained on the white 31 on his side, or what was left of it. Oil dripped down from the plane's lips, crusting and blackening them. The oil down his sides was no better. It was caked in sand and salt, what was left of his paint could barely be seen. The proud Jolly Wrench's insignia was gone, scraped away and obliterated by bullet holes.

A heard the cry of an albatross overhead caught my attention. It landed on Blair's carcass and began picking at it, the nasty, odd looking, wide eyed plane looked at me dumbly, as if to ask if I was going to shoo it away. I would have, but I was far too weak for that. It squawked happily and began to eat and scrape away what was left of his paint. Forgive me if I've gone too far into detail, but it is true.

That was all that I could see at the moment, as my landing gear would not allow me to move and there was nothing else to look at but sand and ocean, so I closed my eyes. I could not take the grotesque scene any longer.

At the break of dawn I heard voices and opened my eyes. My tank clenched when I saw what was left of Blair. All that was left was his frame and a few strewn apart engine pieces. A vile taste made its way into my throat as the tiny, dumb, gruesome planes circled and pecked at what was left. Some may say albatross are amazing creatures. I only despise them.

I tried to focus on the voices, but they seemed far away. In truth, everything seemed beyond my reach as the sun came up. All I could do to keep from screaming as I experienced that isolation was to bite my lip, caked in sand. It was several hours, from my calculations that I was like this, alone. I was overjoyed when the sounds of plane and carrier engines reached my ears.

A few planes flew over, scaring the albatross away, and landed. They tried to get me back on my landing gear but it was horribly twisted. They, instead, decided to tie me up, looping thick ropes around what was left of my wings and half dragging me out and onto the ship.

When my broken gear touched the ship's deck, I looked at the other Corsairs. Every one of them looked horrified at my condition. One of the pitties, with a grimace on his face, rolled up to me, "We gotta get you fixed up," he then added, "if we can." I was obviously not supposed to here that. I frowned nervously, fearful that I'd never be able to be rid of the painful memories of what had happened. If my wing stayed this way, I could never forget it, or even try to.

He took me below deck and into a room packed with enough spare parts to rebuild this squadron twice over. I disliked this room. The pitty turned a mirror to me. For the first time since the patrol, I saw truly saw how much damage they had done. Each one of my propeller blades was bent back like a flower petal, oil had encrusted most of what had been my port wing and most of my nose, my tail was no better off, and I could hardly tell that the plane in the mirror was me. I stared in shock at the reflection and fainted.


End file.
